


Too Late

by LittleWritings



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sappy, When you realize you love her, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:25:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWritings/pseuds/LittleWritings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Fenris fell in love with Hawke</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my representation of Fenris falling for my Delia Hawke. It's unapologetically self-indulgent and sappy. This is a long piece but I've broken it up into two parts. Let me know if you want to see the rest! Please enjoy!

Initially, it was the small things; the way she looked at him, the way her hand settled onto his arm when she told him how she planned to attack the bandits camped up ahead. Then it was the way she looked as she torched any foe that got too close, the blood smeared across her face and trickling down her arm. He didn’t think too much of it at first, that sort of warm, bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach. The moment it turned to acid, however, he became painfully aware of it. The moment she had to lean on her staff to be able to stand, when the others rushed to her aid when she couldn’t walk on her own. This pain was forgotten quickly when he saw her later at the Hanged Man, vivacious and vibrant as ever. In that moment, when she turned her bright, smiling face to look at him, when she invited him to sit next to her, the acid turned sweet again. Later, when she laid her dark head on his shoulder, her laugh pushing her breath across his skin and raising goosebumps, that sweet feeling in his stomach grew into something stronger. 

The new feeling kept him close to her—always. In a fight, he protected her back, watched for those that would capitalize on her blind spots. During travel, he no longer trailed behind the rest. Instead he wandered close to her side, trying not to notice how often their arms tended to brush together. He relished the time she would spend to come and speak to him in his dilapidated, old mansion. He found himself smiling as she flirted with him, returning her feelings, though not to the same degree she had in expressing them. He studied her movements and mannerisms, the way her arms stretched to spit fire, her legs set evenly for a steady footing. The way her hips swayed as she turned, adjusted to send a lightning bolt over her shoulder at a bandit who strayed too close to Varric. Then there was how her fingers gently pushed her long, raven-dark hair from her face, leaving a thin trail of blood as evidence. Her feet rarely stood still, tapping while she waited or listened, their movements solid and sure as they carried her where she wanted to go.

Her face, her face was his favorite to study. While initially it was hard to read and understand, a complex mask devised to hide what happened beneath, he was a quick study. He learned to read the quirk of an eyebrow as a show of either irritation or amusement, depending on how her mouth reacted. Her mouth gave the most away, whether it frowned or smiled, it always said the most about how she was feeling. If it was a tight line, lips thin, she was irritated. If it curved upward, plumping out her cheek over her cheekbone, she was entertained at the very least. He only saw her true smile, the one that split her face in two in the best possible way, when she was with her very good friends, those she trusted enough to call family. Sometimes he was lucky enough to have that golden smile all to himself. Her nose wrinkled almost always in distaste, though sometimes when she laughed very hard. Her eyes were the most challenging to decipher—and often offered the biggest reward. They were often calculating, not really seeing what was in front of her. Whether they were looking far into the past or far into the future, he knew not. Sometimes they turned sad, more often than not when she spoke of her family or Ferelden. They always became warm, happy, when she talked with or about her friends. That expression intensified when she looked at him, her eyes sparkling. He cherished that observation most, the way her gray eyes looked far less like a storm and more like the soft, puffy wool of the sheep kept outside the city walls. That look was becoming more and more common as well, more often than not accompanied by his name on her lips. 

“Fenris.”

No matter the tone, questioning, greeting, angry, desperate, sad, wracked with pain or guilt, it didn’t matter. His name had never sounded better than when it came from her. He found any excuse he could to speak with her, her voice wrapping him more effectively in an enchantment than any spell. She had a talent of getting him to speak, he found himself telling her things few knew and even fewer would find out. She listened and responded to what he had to say of his past. She was invested in his cause, fighting equally, if not more ferociously than he did against the scum called slavers. 

It had been months, years even, since he had felt the burn of the acid in his stomach. When it returned, it came all in a rush mixed with fear and anger. He hadn’t felt the sting of that pain, pain from his past in Tevinter, in a long time. He let it consume him. He let it lash out. Lash out at her. 

“What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” He spat, the words out before he could stop them. To her credit, Hawke barely flinched, though her gaze became guarded. The acid dissipated as she stood back from him, hands at her sides. An icy pit formed in his stomach instead as he fumbled for words to fix it but instead he only found words that sent her away. 

Later, when he’d regained himself, dammed up the poison, he went to her, explained his actions. He expected some harsh backlash, strong words and a fiery temper that had become known throughout Kirkwall. Instead he was met with worry and relief; two emotions that made the icy pit in his stomach grow, emotions that prompted him to go—

She pulled him back, made him stay. When she kissed him, pressed him to the wall, he knew he would not escape, whatever happened next. The icy pit in his stomach turned to fire in an instant, he’d felt nothing like it. 

He realized, all too late, that he loved her. As he disentangled himself from her embrace, he glanced back at her sleeping form before he got dressed. Then he paced in front of the fire trying to find the words. He had only just admitted to himself that he was desperately in love with this woman, how could he—

But then she was awake, covering the hurt in her voice with a joke. He panicked; he had to answer her somehow, he stumbled through the words. But they weren’t the right words; they weren’t the words he wanted to say. Other things were spilling out of him instead, things about pain and memories. Things that were true, but that could have waited—there were other things he should’ve been saying, explaining to her. She offered to help, as always, and he stalled, another truth spilling out in its purity. 

“It’s too much. This is too fast. I cannot… do this.” The world seemed to freeze in place as he heard the echo of his own voice in his ears. The icy pit in his stomach returned as quickly as it had vanished hours before, his stomach clenching at the sudden pain. Hawke’s face flew through a series of emotions: surprise, pain, determination, resignation. No, he had not wanted this. So he resolved to leave, throwing out a paltry apology as he stepped out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Fenris fell in love with Hawke

From then on, he seemed to be at war with himself. The ice nearly devoured him in the week it took for him to see her again. But in that first moment when he saw her dark head from the window, the ice melted into a warm glow and he felt like he could finally breathe again. The feeling fled all too soon as his heart froze when she entered his mansion. Her face was pallid, dark circles under her eyes throwing her face into deeper contrast. His breath caught when he noticed that her expression was arranged carefully in a mask that was beyond his level of deciphering, blocking him from reading whatever lay beneath. Her smile was too forced, her voice too light. The glares from Aveline and Varric behind her were more than enough to make him pause, arranging his own face to show nothing of how his mind was racing. He became proficient at the game, slipping into old habits from the days of Tevinter he had thought were long dead. He endured the talks from Varric and Aveline, even Isabela tutted him for his mistake. For the most part, he let it all roll off, knowing that all disapproval was simply an expression of their concern for Hawke, a concern he shared. 

Fenris found he loved her in all things, the light as much as the dark. After his initial revelation, when she was ragged and clearly still trying to pull herself back together after his departure. He loved her as she fought for and lost her mother, all the while his heart constricting more and more at the actual string of events. He felt as though he couldn’t just let her be alone that night, no matter how inadequate his presence was. She’d lost too much. He loved her ferocity, the way she fought for her friends and never gave up on them. He loved her stubborn and foolish confidence, the suggestion to duel the Arishok haunting him every moment of every day for months afterward. He loved her tenacity, the way she clung to life even after the Arishok had nearly succeeded in taking it. She’d nearly lost her life for Isabela and used every opportunity after that to keep the rest of her friends close, using her bedridden state to keep tabs on them. She helped Varric compose her epic battle with the Arishok and she offered advice to Aveline regarding Donnic. Merrill brought her recipes to try, old elven things meant to help her heal. Isabela smuggled her ale from the Hanged Man, against Anders’s orders. It seemed it was the best the pirate could think of as an apology for what had happened, though she did spend a lot of time smoothing Hawke’s hair and giving her fashion advice. According to the Rivani woman being bedridden had become fashionable; half of the other Hightown nobles had taken to their beds as well in a sign of solidarity for the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Anders spent the most time with her by far, ostensibly to monitor her healing, though the two spent lots of time reading through his manifesto. Fenris tried not to feel the sting; he tried to ignore the way Anders would always be cuddled up to Hawke’s side whenever he decided to visit her in the estate. Hawke deserved happiness, even if it was with that mage. Still, he sometimes caught a glint in her eye when she looked up and saw him, her smile more genuine when pointed at him than when she smiled at the mage. 

He loved how she surprised him, giving even more of herself when she offered to teach him to read. He always felt an icy mix of apprehension and guilt when he went to see her, anticipating her scorn and pain. But it always melted into a comfortable warmth when he finally laid eyes on her, when he could see that she was whole and still situated atop a mountain of pillows on her bed. The warmth strengthened when she beckoned him close and pulled a stack of parchment for him to read and copy out from behind the closest pillow that propped her up. She had elected to begin with writing, as best as they could manage anyway, because she couldn’t leave her bed yet. So he spent time at her desk copying lines, the quill scratching across the paper and leaving marks behind. When he’d finished, he’d bring it to her for approval and she would read it to him, slowly and carefully, her finger trailing beneath the words. She would encourage him to read it back to her, only a few words at first, though eventually he could read entire pages. When she was cleared to leave bed they moved their lessons to the library and onto books. The moment when he’d finally made it through the book of Shartan that she had given him months before, his chest felt so constricted with warmth he thought it would burst. 

He was at war with himself again when Anders finally approved her for exploring anything outside the walls of her estate. The icy pit had an iron grip on his stomach when she began to plan her first trip, icy tendrils spread when she picked the Wounded Coast to eliminate some bandits for Aveline. The more she talked, the more the ice spread, until he felt like he could hardly breathe. She had called them all to her mansion for a celebratory meal of her release from home healing and it had turned to into planning a dangerous excursion. When Fenris left that evening he was surprised he didn’t shatter into dozens upon dozens of tiny, icy pieces, his body felt brittle and numb from the ice that held his heart. 

The ice loosened its grip minimally when Hawke appeared at his door the next day to bring him with her on her quest. The ice only left him for good when they all returned in perfect health, if only splattered in bandit blood. Everyone was at the Hanged Man that night and all seemed to return to normal. 

After that initial trip to the Wounded Coast, he fell back into his study of her and kept his findings close to himself. She favored the side that had been ripped apart by the Arishok’s blade, curling into herself slightly to protect it. Her stance overall was smaller as she twirled her staff and released fire. She was light on her feet, ready to run when before she would’ve held her position until the fight was over. He worked to decipher her mask, but he didn’t get far, settling instead for reading her face as she interacted with other people, companions, merchants, bandits, anyone that could change her facial expression to something other than the mask she kept for him. 

Everything tipped precariously sideways a few weeks after Hawke had returned to bringing chaos to Kirkwall. They had been investigating something in Lowtown when they were ambushed by some idiot gang. It was a long, hard fight, something they had not anticipated. Fenris and Isabela were pulled far from Hawke and Varric, it left them all vulnerable to attack. When the last thug had fallen from Fenris’s blade, they all needed a chance to catch their breath. Hawke clutched her side and when she pulled her hand away, it was slick with blood, her robes darkening quickly when she removed the pressure. They debated what to do for a moment before Fenris essentially hauled Hawke to Darktown and  
Anders’s clinic. He would not lose her to his own mistaken suggestion, not after she had taken months to recover. Anders concluded that Hawke had at least partially reopened her old wounds because the healed tissue was not yet strong enough for such a strain as a lengthy battle. She was relegated back to bed for a few days to give it time to heal again. Fenris took her home and made sure she followed the mage’s instructions. It was the most he had been with her or touched her in at least a year. 

Their reading lesson was moved back to her quarters that week; he brought his book with him from the library. When he moved to settle in at the desk, Hawke shook her head and patted the bed next to her, saying something about how it was easier. Warmth fluttered in his stomach as he settled on to the bed next to her, his mind struggling not to remember the last time they had lain so close together. In an effort to distract himself, he concentrated on the words in front of him, reading them out as best he could. When he faltered, Hawke turned her head, leaning forward to see what had him stuck. He admired the curve of her neck and the tilt of her head as she squinted at the page, her dark hair falling off to the side of her face. It was a moment before he repeated the word she said quietly for him, he had been too caught up in her concentrated expression to notice when she had spoken. When she was satisfied that he’d mastered the new word, she laid her head on his shoulder. He could feel her breath brush against his chest; her hair tickled the exposed skin on his arm. All in all, he was almost too distracted for reading anything well at all. But he soldiered on, coming to the end of the chapter some time later. He turned the page to continue, stealing a glance at Hawke before he began to read again. She was asleep, mouth hanging open a little, but face peaceful. He decided to close the book and sit in silence, her sleep was important to her healing wounds. She snuggled into his side, an arm wrapping around his waist. He let out a small sigh, carefully bringing his fingers up to run through her hair. He resigned himself to staying with her for a while. He would never escape her power over him. 

He awoke the next morning with the sun in his face and a knock at the door. He was disoriented for a moment before he stiffened, eyes wide. He had not meant to stay the night. He carefully got himself out of the bed, stifling a groan as his muscles protested at their forced movement. He checked the room quickly to ensure he would leave nothing behind and then answered the door. He mumbled something about Hawke being asleep before he pushed past Varric to escape the mansion. Varric’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow and a smirk. They never spoke of the matter after the fact. 

Two years passed, things fell back into a normal pattern, Hawke using her new power as Champion to help people and cause a ruckus. She faced off with Meredith and tried to get someone on the Viscount’s throne, angry when Aveline had to deal with more and more templars in the keep. Fenris always followed, even if he did not always approve of what Hawke was up to. She had helped him enough that he felt he had no other option than to follow wherever she led their little group. He tried to keep matters of the heart out of it.

He was caught by surprise when he found that his sister was in Kirkwall, so he turned to Hawke for assistance, it was second nature. She helped him end his miserable master and then saved him from ending his sister. Anger flashed cold and bright, the first time in a long time, lashing out at her again. Her eyes held the sadness of losing too many family members too soon and his anger snapped to sadness, the icy pit clenching his stomach again. He left, a continued trend, it seemed. 

She appeared at his door later that night; she was coming to him this time instead of the other way around. Aveline and Varric left them alone, though he suspected that would not be the last time he heard about changing residences. As he should’ve expected, Hawke was there to check on him, make sure he was all right. He had been sure that he couldn’t have felt anything more for her. His treacherous brain did not allow him to speak of these feelings though, just as it had blocked him from saying what needed to be said three years before. 

The stain of magic. She didn’t flinch when he said it. She only looked tired. It wasn’t enough. He wanted a reaction. Something. Anything. She was too patient with him. Yet, he felt his tone soften, he apologized and amended how he could. He didn’t want to inflict more pain. She looked at him for a long moment before she said it, said something he never could’ve predicted. 

“Whatever it means, I hope it means we’ll stay together.” 

He loved her. He loved her in every possible way. He knew it beyond a doubt. Yes, they would stay together. He could not fathom being apart, not anymore. Not after the three years he’d had to endure, not after three years of holding his tongue, keeping his feelings to himself if only for her sake. Three years of wishing he could take it all back, wishing that he could spend all the lost time with her instead of separated from her. Three years of regret. But looking at her, he stopped. Her gray eyes were wide and unguarded for once, her entire countenance seemed vulnerable. She had laid it all out in the open and was anticipating the final blow, the end. He wondered if it was too late, if he had waited too long to confess his feelings. The way she was looking at him made him unsure. 

He could’ve growled at his inability to make a decision, at his apprehension in expressing his feelings. She was being honest with him. It was the very least he could do to be honest with her in return. It was decided then, in that moment. He figured he’d best start at the beginning. He pulled absent-mindedly at the red fabric tied around his wrist, a memento of an injury he had received not long after that fateful night he was working to remedy now. Hawke had ripped the fabric from one of her spare shirts to bind his wound; Anders had not accompanied the group on that trip outside of Kirkwall. He had kept the fabric even after his wound had healed, though he hadn’t been sure why until much later. His fingers worried at the vibrant fabric as he chose his words, the right words this time, carefully. 

“We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”


End file.
